


Jaebum's Color Theory

by pepijr



Category: GOT7
Genre: A little funny, Alternate Universe - College/University, Campy, Cheesy, Coach Jaebum, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Professor Jinyoung, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 08:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepijr/pseuds/pepijr
Summary: Jinyoung is a film studies professor trying to get promoted and Jaebum does his best to help.





	Jaebum's Color Theory

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day!

He goes back and forth between a pair of nearly identical red ties, putting one to his neck, posing, then trying it with the other. In the end, he chooses neither, and opts to unbutton the collar of his shirt. The blazer, he thinks, a muted navy, makes enough of a statement. 

“The colors should be studied outside of their functional use as metaphor. They have their own interactions which can contribute to the plot in ways that haven’t been studied yet, but should.” 

Jinyoung goes over the words in the mirror, reciting them in different angles. He pays attention to the shape his lips make, the way his shoulders look, how his hands rise to help direct his voice. This is the monologue he’s practiced for a month now in preparation for this night: the film department’s annual mixer. It’s his chance to woo the head of the department in hopes of being promoted from film studies lecturer to tenured professor, possibly a chair, and he smiles at his reflection, poses like an esteemed professor should: with pride, with elegance, with the subtle air of superiority. 

“Fuck, someone get that!” 

Jaebum’s yelling fractures Jinyoung’s focus, pulls him from his thoughts and out of the bathroom. He steps into the living room where Jaebum is on the couch, his whole body leaning towards the TV. He wears a headset, a red shirt with the first few buttons undone. A whistle hangs from his neck and it bounces against his chest each time he jabs his fingers at the buttons of a controller. 

“Someone needs to get that,” he screams, “Right now!” 

“Get what?” Jinyoung asks and Jaebum turns to him.

“Babe, sorry, I’m gaming.” His eyes flit to Jinyoung for a few seconds before, with his lips parted, his eyes wide and attentive, he turns back to the screen. “You look cute, babe.” 

“Do you think it’s a good time to be playing right now?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We have a dinner to go to.” 

“I know, babe, but I really wanted to play. I got this sick skin, it looks awesome. The guys really like it, you should come sit and watch me play.” 

“Jaebum, you’re supposed to be getting ready,” Jinyoung presses tight fists against his hips, feels red pour into his cheeks, “This is important. We’re going to be leaving soon and you haven’t even gotten dressed.” 

“Babe, I am dressed. I put on my nice Jordans, see?” 

Jaebum lifts up and turns his foot, showing off his red sneakers while Jinyoung tries not to scream. 

“I said semi-formal! Don’t you ever listen? And why do you have a whistle on?” 

He pries his eyes away from the screen enough to look at Jinyoung, to hand him a wide, proud smile. 

“Babe, so, like, you know how it’s all going to be film people? They must know each other, so I was thinking that they won’t know me. So they’re going to be checking me out, you know, like, who is this guy? Then they peep my whistle and they’ll know, Jinyoung, they’ll be, like: that’s a coach’s whistle. He’s a coach. It’s smart, right? Right, babe? Babe?” 

But Jinyoung doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed, his fingers rubbing at his temples. Anger rattles inside of him and stings, like red-hot pebbles that bounce around in his lungs as he points in the direction of their bedroom. 

“Stop playing and go change into what I picked out for you. Now.” 

.  .  .  .

The first time Jinyoung sees Jaebum, he is wearing a bright, orange sweater. Jinyoung parks his car, faces it towards the closest field and sits, sipping his home-brewed coffee from the orange thermos with “Best Son” written on it in teal, his mother’s gift to him for Valentine’s last year. Jaebum’s arms have gotten stuck in his sweater somehow, and without any help around, he twists and turns and gives Jinyoung a satisfying display of a firm, toned stomach and a well-defined chest. 

Then a messy head of hair emerges and his arms, just as built as the rest of him, toss the sweater aside. Jaebum, though he doesn’t know him as Jaebum yet, only a body delivered from his dreams, a body with an embarrassing tattoo of Bart Simpson doing a wheelie above his hip, lifts both arms up in a victory pose. 

Jinyoung remains there, sitting for a few minutes to make sure that when he walks to his office, his excitement won’t be too obvious in the front of his pants. 

Hours later, he sits behind his desk, poorly placed in the small, cramped office. His eyebrows are furrowed in frustration as he goes through the pile of mediocre essays that he paints with an orange marker, pointing out mistakes, inaccuracies, and poor writing. 

Jaebum knocks on his door with one hand, cradles a cup of coffee in the other, but Jinyoung doesn’t bother to look up. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Mr. Park? This you?” 

“That’s what the door says, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, that’s true,” Jaebum says, laughs a second later, “Nice office.” 

“Thank you.” Jinyoung flips to the next essay, sighs when he notices the student has spelled his name wrong. Again. “Is there anything you need? Or are you just going to stand there?” 

“Can I sit?”    


“That’s what the chair is there for.” 

And Jaebum claims the seat and makes himself comfortable. His legs spread, his arms rest on the sides. His shoulders relax and he leans back, smiling. The office looks even smaller with him inside. 

“I came to talk about one of the students I coach. Yugyeom, maybe you know him. Nice kid, really tall?”

“Of course I do. It’s hard to forget the student that snores through each of my lectures.” 

“Yeah. I don’t know if you know, but he’s on the soccer team. He’s the captain actually.” 

“Oh, I know. He tells me about it twice a day.” 

“The thing is, he won’t be able to play soon if he doesn’t maintain his GPA. I’ve made it my personal mission to help him since he loves playing. He doesn’t have a strong support system at home, and I want to make sure he gets the help he needs. And your class is the one he’s actually in danger of failing. I was hoping we could work something out and get him back on track to passing.” 

“If he doesn’t want to fail my class, all he has to do is stop acting like a failing student, do acceptable work, and before you know it, he’ll end the semester with a nice D. Asking me to do anything else but instruct, well, that’s on the verge of illegal. I won’t be giving any special treatment to a student just because he wants it. He needs to earn his grade, just like the rest of his peers.” 

“I’m not asking for special treatment, just some understanding, some extra help. I even brought you coffee.”

Jaebum stretches out his arm, presents the cup like an offering. At this, Jinyoung finally raises his head, though his eyes focus on Jaebum’s smile and that horridly orange sweater. It is the same one that he’d seen this morning, the sweater with no head, only an exquisite torso. 

He tries to pretend that scene never happened, to play it cool as he reaches forward to take the coffee, tries to ignore their fingers brushing. But each time he sees the sweater he thinks of the lines of his stomach, the ripples of muscle at his back, and, to his dismay, Jaebum has an equally gorgeous face. The memory is vibrant enough that he has to cross his legs under his desk. He brings the cup to his lips, takes a sip, then hands it back. 

“This is too sweet,” he says, his voice returning to that cold, detached sound. He looks back down, tries to focus on sentences, on words, but at the back of his head all he sees is skin framed in orange. “If Yugyeom wants to better his grade, he can come see me. He doesn’t have to send his coach.”

Jaebum nods, bows, waves and takes the coffee with him. He mutters a thank you, but Jinyoung only catches his movements in glimpses. He is too afraid to look upwards again until Jaebum is gone, and only the echo of his presence remains. It feels warm. 

He comes back the next day with another cup of coffee.

“Again, coach? Yugyeom already emailed me, you don’t have to do this.” 

“I know,” Jaebum says and offers the coffee with a smile that disarms Jinyoung more than he cares to admit. So he accepts the cup, takes a sip, makes a face.

“This is too bitter,” he tells him and Jaebum takes it back, leaves with another one of his smiles. 

They do this for two entire weeks until Jinyoung runs out of excuses for not liking the coffee, though he blames the tank top Jaebum has decided to wear for his sudden silence. It puts his broad shoulders on display, as well as those toned arms, and Jinyoung fights the urge to brush his gaze across every inch of tanned skin. All he’s left with is a question, which he pushes forward with care. 

“Why do you keep getting me coffee? Your student is safe, and this can’t be cheap.” 

“I want to know what kind of coffee you like. For when I take you on a date.”

Jinyoung's heart skips for a few beats. His breath leaves him, his lungs empty themselves. He fiddles with his hands under his desk, plays with a rubber band. He feels young again, no older than sixteen and still hopelessly infatuated with the captain of the baseball team. 

“On a what?” he asks, wonders if he’s heard wrong. But Jaebum’s smile grows, widens into a bright grin, and all he can think of is that orange sweater, stuck on his elbows. How the sunlight fell in just the right way to highlight each single shape and line of his body. 

And he notices that the sunlight spills in now to make the room glow, to carve out Jaebum’s sharp eyes, the moles above one of them, the bright row of teeth, the  well-shaped forehead and messy hair that ends above his eyebrows. Then he remembers his curtains are drawn. Jaebum lights up the room himself. 

He swallows loudly when Jaebum leans forward. 

“On a date. I’m taking you out,” he says, “I just want it to be perfect.” 

“How do you know I’ll say yes?” 

“Will you go on a date with me?” 

Jinyoung closes his eyes and he swears, for a second, that the sun itself presses against them because all he sees is orange. An infinite, blissful orange, tastier than fruits and hotter than flames. It fills him with flutters he thought were only possible in the daydreams of his childhood and when he opens his eyes, Jaebum is there, as lovely as ever. 

Under his desk, his fingers pull on the rubber band until it snaps. 

“Yes,” he answers, finally, though he means: a million times yes. 

.  .  .  .

The ballroom is decorated with sunflowers and the walls are lined with matching yellow ribbons. At the door, an usher hands them a yellow name-tag and Jinyoung writes their names in neat, blocked characters.

“Do you think we can eat some?” 

“What?” 

Jaebum points at one of the arrangements. “You know, like, sunflower seeds? Maybe they’re for snacking.” 

“Jaebum,” Jinyoung starts but never finishes. Instead he sighs, points to a wide table near the corner where the food has been laid out. “There’s the food, why don’t you get us something?”

Then Jaebum nods at him, walks backwards so he can give Jinyoung a salute before he’s off, dodging waiters, slipping between small crowds. 

Jinyoung makes his way to the edge of the room where he spots Youngjae and Mark talking. 

“Any sign of him?” Jinyoung asks. 

“Not yet, but I hear he’s always late. He’s liberal about that. Life is short or something,” Youngjae says. 

“God, I hope he isn’t. I have all my talking points memorized. I was going to bring note cards but I practiced so much that I just memorized them.” 

“I think he’ll be the laid back type,” Mark says, “He chose all this sunflower shit.”

“Let’s just hope I make a good impression,” Jinyoung says and they all sigh in unison, look like flowers in the process of wilting, tossed to the side, looking both worried and bored.

Mark sips his drink, then he catches sight of a red sweater nestled in a sea of yellow. 

“You brought Jaebum,” he says. 

“Bold choice,” Youngjae adds. 

“Guys,” Jinyoung picks at the sleeves of his blazer, “Don’t be like that. We’ve been dating for six months now. I live with him. The old faculty head knew, this one should know, too. Plus it’s not that bad. We talked about the faculty events, how we should behave.”

“Let’s hope it works,” Youngjae says and Mark hums. 

“He’s better,” Jinyoung argues, “I told him what’s off limits.”

And they all watch as Jaebum works his way down the table of food with a plate in each hand. He struggles to serve himself, set on holding both while placing food on them at the same time. But he manages to pile food up, always excited, lively. Then, when there’s no room left on the plates, he takes a final piece -- a miniature hamburger -- and puts it in his mouth, holds it with his teeth. He turns, teetering from side to side like a building threatening to fall, and balances both plates on either hand. 

From across the room, as it always tends to happen, Jinyoung meets his eyes and Jaebum grins, the hamburger almost falls. Jinyoung, even after months of dating, is flooded with that yellow glow of bliss again. His lips pull into a smile.

“Here he comes,” Mark says and they watch Jaebum advance with sudden concentration, as though the thin trickle of people between them were obstacles, as if the whole room were a playground he had to cross, ducking under stretched arms, squeezing between guests. 

Then he arrives after nearly dropping the plate four times, after bumping into three people, after a married pair gives him a dirty look, and after a waiter eyes him suspiciously. He stands in front of them, chewing on what remains of the burger. 

“Babe, they’ve got little sandwiches,” he pauses to chew loudly and swallow, “I got you four, one of each kind.” 

And when Jaebum speaks, it’s always loud, a bit like yelling, and in the guarded hush of the mixer, it sounds like disaster. Youngjae winces, Mark looks away, and Jinyoung wishes he could recede into the background, could become a sunflower on the wallpaper. 

“Thank you, Jaebum.” He reaches forward to take a plate from him. 

“Wait, I think I ate one. Let me go back and get you that last one.”

“No, it’s fine you don’t -- “

But Jaebum turns just as the waiter passes by and they crash. The waiter almost falls but Jaebum grabs his arm, holds him up. His tray isn’t as lucky: it tumbles forward and paints the floor with splatters of rich, yellow mustard. Jaebum, meanwhile, holds his plate above his head and lowers it slowly. He inspects the food and nods, turning to Jinyoung with a smile. 

“Everything’s still here,” he says, “That was a close one, babe.”

.  .  .  .

The first time Jaebum calls him ‘babe’ he wears dull green underwear. Jinyoung sifts through his papers at the office and Jaebum sits across from him. They’ve been on four dates and most of them take place nearly thirty miles from school at Jinyoung’s request. To avoid students, he’d told Jaebum, though he knows he’s still embarrassed.

But Jaebum is always unaware, believes Jinyoung’s excuse wholeheartedly. He’s unaware now, spread out in the chair, that every time he reaches under his shirt to scratch his chest, he lifts the entire garment and Jinyoung has to look up from the essay he’s grading to stare in awe at Jaebum’s perfect stomach. He traces the firm shapes of muscle, the cute belly button, the line of hair that starts beneath his navel and trails down, thickening until it ends suddenly with the blunt, green band of his underwear. 

Before Jinyoung can imagine what’s underneath, Jaebum says, “I think I’m allergic to nipple piercings.”

Jinyoung looks up and Jaebum looks scared, worried. He has one hand on his chest. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I was thinking about getting a nipple piercing and suddenly my nipple won’t stop itching? I think maybe my body had, like, a placebo effect.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” 

“Then why is it itchy? You think it means something?” 

“I’m not sure, Jaebum,” he looks back down at the essay he’s reading, “But I think you’ll be fine. Shouldn’t you be doing something? Don’t you have a class to teach?” 

“I cancelled class.”

“Why?” 

“I wanted to come see you, so I came to your office hours.” 

“Jaebum, you can’t do that.”

And Jaebum smiles, winks in his direction. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” 

Jinyoung can’t deny how weak it makes him, how, if he stood, he’s sure his knees would wobble at the sight. But he tightens his lips into a thin line, goes back to grading. 

“These kids won’t stop writing about Wes Anderson. I hate him so much, he’s unoriginal and overdone. Everything he does is so basic and faux quirky.” 

A silence settles between them, though it feels comfortable, at least to Jinyoung. Reminds him of green pastures, the grass bending under a breeze. 

“When are we going to take our relationship to the next level?” 

He sees the pastures now, splitting impatiently, pulled apart by new plants. 

“What do you mean next level? We’ve only been on four dates. It’s been six weeks.”

“That’s, like, six years in dog years.”

“I don’t think that’s true, but what about it? What’s the next level?” 

“Well, four dates means we’re dating. So I get to call you ‘babe’. We should think of moving in together. And, well, me and little JB were thinking--”

“Who is little JB?”

Jaebum points down at his sweatpants and Jinyoung thinks to laugh, but Jaebum looks serious.

“My little buddy down there. Long story short: we want to smash.”

“Jaebum,” he looks away from him, too embarrassed to admit that the last time he had sex was at a drive-in movie during graduate school, “You can’t just ask that. Plus, I’m really busy right now. We don’t have a lot of time, it might take a while.”

“Why can’t we do it right now?” 

“What do you want to do? Lock the door and get naked and do it right here?” he says with a scoff and returns to his reading, now wielding a green highlighter. But Jaebum is too dense for sarcasm: he doesn’t find the hidden meanings, the subtleties. He stands to lock the door. When he turns around, he takes off his shirt, pulls down his sweatpants and kicks off his shoes. 

“Great idea, babe. That’s why I like you so much.” 

Jaebum surprises him at every turn and Jinyoung feels new, suddenly, green and inexperienced. Like a forest, young and wild and hiding more than he knows. One that Jaebum roams with ease because Jinyoung, unknowingly, invites him in: he breaks apart bushes to guide Jaebum’s steps, pulls away branches to let the sunlight pour over every leaf on his path. 

Jaebum leaves no room to be nervous, no room to doubt, no room to do anything but give in, to surrender. 

A few minutes later, Jinyoung finds himself in underwear, too, seated on his desk. His papers and a few books fall off the edge but he’s too busy pulling Jaebum closer with his hands, wrapping his legs around his waist. Jinyoung is moaning into their kiss and the sound flattens where their tongues press together, twisting, learning each others’ shape, and Jaebum is hard already. Hard enough that every time they move, no matter how slight, Jinyoung feels his cock brush against him through the thin layer of his boxers. 

He grows bold for a second, reaches between them, rakes his fingers down Jaebum’s stomach to his groin where he wraps a hand tentatively around Jaebum’s erection. Jaebum groans and Jinyoung’s eyes open wide -- he breaks their kiss. Jaebum is thicker than usual, or what Jinyoung has come to know as usual, so he swallows, shakes his head. 

“I don’t think that’s going to fit,” Jinyoung says and Jaebum’s smile, usually cheerful, light and carefree, darkens into something cocky and confident. 

“We’ll just have to fill you up, babe.” 

It doesn’t take long for Jaebum to bend Jinyoung over his own desk. His face is pressed against the wood and he stares at the green highlighter, watches it rattle when he writhes, when he wriggles his hips as Jaebum fingers him. Sometimes he slows to pry Jinyoung’s cheeks apart and he feels dirty each time because Jaebum spits on his entrance and works him open and loose with short, excited fingers. Jinyoung whines during, less out of embarrassment, more out of need. His whole body is warm, flushed with color, and then Jaebum pauses for too long and Jinyoung feels empty, longs to be filled. He forgets his inhibitions, forgets about shame, his pride, and moans as he sways his hips because he’s sure Jaebum’s cock is coming next. 

But nothing comes. Then Jaebum’s voice appears, as quiet as the rustle of leaves. 

“Babe, your butt looks so cute.” 

“What the fuck? Jaebum, what are you doing?” 

“Sorry, I got distracted. It’s so cute and chubby.”

He fights the urge to sit up because he’s embarrassed at how needy he is, how his back arches and his body begs for Jaebum. 

“Just fuck me already before I regret--” 

A cry cuts off his words when Jaebum spanks him. 

“And it jiggles, too. This is so hot, babe.” Jinyoung parts his lips to reply but another cry comes rushing out, tinted with pleasure because Jaebum spanks him again and again and again. Color sprouts on his bottom and his toes curl, both with pain, with excitement. Jinyoung closes his eyes tightly as every breath leaves him, as the only sound that remains wraps around his throat, has the shape of Jaebum’s name. 

Then that stops, too, and this time Jinyoung trembles. 

“What now?” he croaks but Jaebum doesn’t answer, only turns him around until they’re facing each other. 

“I want you to ride me, babe, I want to see your cute face while you’re taking me.” 

Jinyoung would be shy if he weren’t so desperate, if the hair wasn’t sticking to his sweaty forehead and if his ass didn’t sting and if his thighs didn’t feel so weak, too weak to do any riding. 

“I don’t think I can,” he says but Jaebum shakes his head and guides him with his hands. He sits Jinyoung at the edge of his desk and wraps Jinyoung’s arms around his shoulders. Then he props his legs up, takes a hold of them under each knee and he hoists Jinyoung up, carries him, aligns him so that when he lowers his frame, his cock presses neatly against Jinyoung’s rim. 

“Can you put it in?” Jaebum asks and Jinyoung reaches between them to guide Jaebum in with a whimper. He takes a moment to look at what he can of Jaebum’s arms, how tense they are, how the muscles flare when he starts moving Jinyoung, tenderly at first before he speeds up, bounces Jinyoung on his cock. He digs his nails into the back of Jaebum’s neck. 

The slap of skin mixes with each of his breathy moans, and to his surprise Jaebum, who’s loud in all he does, who looks cheerful and bright and innocent at every turn is silent except for a few groans. His whole face changes: kind lines sharpen, become impossibly handsome, even a bit cruel. He looks down mostly but when his eyes flit up, when his gaze meets Jinyoung’s, he swears that his entire body flares with heat, that it presses against his skin until he’s sure he’ll burst, until he’s sure he’ll fall apart. 

But he never does, Jaebum never lets him. When he starts going limp, too lost in bliss, distracted by the pleasure that spreads in waves of static each time Jaebum’s cock slams into him, Jaebum inches towards the wall of the small office until Jinyoung’s back rests against it. His arms pull away from Jaebum while his legs wrap around him. He tries to grip on something -- a shelf, a frame, he’ll take anything -- but he’s reduced to scratching weakly at the wall as Jaebum eagerly fucks him into it, rough and impatient but with enough brute grace that Jinyoung sees stars behind his eyelids. 

Slowly, pleasure builds and swallows him, does away with his vision, his voice, and all he’s aware of is Jaebum, Jaebum stretching him, Jaebum holding him in place, pressing him against the wall, making him sore. Jaebum coming in spurts inside of him, twitching and pulsing and warm, and Jaebum carrying him back to the desk, Jaebum slipping out of him and cleaning the cum that leaks out with a piece of cloth. 

When he opens his eyes, Jaebum is grinning and out of breath and Jinyoung thinks that this must be a dream, that Jaebum with his sweaty shoulders, glistening even then in the dark of his office, is too dazzling to be real. That if he looks down he’ll see the green of pastures, that if he looks away from Jaebum’s dark eyes and their arresting gaze, he’ll see hills and mountains and the distant shape of cattle. 

Then Jaebum speaks and Jinyoung trips back to reality. 

“Babe, me and little JB had a great fucking time, but I have to go.” 

He wants to be annoyed, wants to be mad, and maybe it’s because he’s just been fucked into a wall, or maybe it’s because, slowly, Jaebum has already begun to undo every latch and lock and bolt that Jinyoung has placed in front of his heart, but he can’t bring himself to be anything other than pleased. He laughs. 

“You’re cute,” he tells him and Jaebum’s smile becomes impossibly brighter, incredible, breathtaking, “I’ll see you later.” 

Half an hour later, Jinyoung sits behind his desk, smiling. Mark points it out when he steps inside, takes a seat. 

“What’s that smell?” he asks, “And why are you grinning?” 

Jinyoung becomes aware of his cheeks, the pain from smiling, a delicate, sweet sting. He brings the green highlighter to his lips, gnaws on the end of it. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies but Mark, seemingly, has caught on. He nods to the corner of the room. Jinyoung follows his gaze and finds Jaebum’s dull green underwear dangled over one of his books.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Park.” 

.  .  .  .

The head of faculty, an old man with a crowded but kind face, wears a blue paisley blazer with its elbows patched in brown. 

Little by little, step by step, Jinyoung makes his way across the room in search of him. He pretends to hold conversations with people, uses them to bounce from group to group, hooking on to the next set of eyes that will take him closer to the head of the department. 

Jaebum follows, though his mouth remains too full to speak much, still mesmerized by how tiny the hamburgers are. Instead he smiles when prompted and steps in Jinyoung’s direction every time he turns and finds him gone.

Finally, Jinyoung arrives and pretends to happen upon the head by chance. 

“Dr. Hwang,” he says, “I wanted to introduce myself.” 

From this close, he notices the blue necklace that dangles from his chest and his wife’s matching blue dress.

“My name is Park Jinyoung, I’m one of the lecturers here.” 

“Oh, Mr. Park. I’ve heard great things about you.” 

Jinyoung smiles for a second, feels as light as a cloud creeping across a blue sky towards an endless horizon, possibility stretching all around him. He rides the breeze, the gentle sigh of wind. 

Then the sky falls in patches when Jaebum finally notices where he is and joins them. 

“Hey, sir, I’m Coach Jaebum. You’re Dr. Hwang, right? Jinyoung says a lot about you.” 

Jinyoung looks away and hopes that the heat that he feels pricking at his cheeks isn’t visible. He panics, looks between Jaebum and Dr. Hwang and decides, silently, that he has to get rid of Jaebum. 

“Dr. Hwang, are you thirsty? Would you like a drink?” Jinyoung asks. 

“I could use some water.” 

He prods Jaebum with his elbow, nods to the drinks table as though nudging him with his eyes to walk in that direction. 

“Jaebum?” 

But Jaebum doesn’t take the hint. He looks at Jinyoung, looks puzzled as he tries to pull apart his expression, tries to make meaning out of wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows. Finally, he gives in: his shoulders slump, but he smiles, gives Jinyoung a wink. 

“I’ll have some punch, babe. Whatever flavor, but if they have blue, then blue,” Jaebum says, then turns to Dr. Hwang, “Blue has less sugar, I think. Red is, like, too strong.” 

Jinyoung stands there, unsure of what to do, too embarrassed to speak, to do anything other than glance at Jaebum before he walks to the drinks table. He gets two cups, one of water, one of some blue drink, and he leans against the table, sighs quietly to himself. He tries to think of anything except Jaebum and Dr. Hwang and what they might be talking about, what kind of wild story Jaebum must be telling. What kind of impression he must be building of them both.

The blue sky from before now looks desolate, and Jinyoung, the cloud, has emptied itself, nothing more than a wispy shape, pulled along by any nudge from the wind. 

“Having trouble?” 

He turns and finds Mark there, his head cocked to the side. He looks worried and sympathetic, kind enough that Jinyoung has to look away and sigh again. He plays with the ring on his finger, cheap and plastic with a cat’s face attached to it, Jaebum’s gift for their three week anniversary. 

“I don’t want to go back,” he says, “I’m afraid of what I’ll find when I get there.”

“Maybe you should talk to him again,” Mark offers. 

“I don’t know why I brought him. I could have mentioned him, then they could have met later.”

“Just talk to him.” 

Jinyoung tilts his head back when he realizes he might cry. He blinks away his tears, remembers his exercises for stress. He pictures a small pool of water, blue and deep and cool to the touch. He gathers every worry, every thread of stress, and submerges them, watches them sink deeper and deeper out of sight. He takes four breaths, two of them slow, two quick, and then he’s ready. 

“Good luck,” Mark says, raises a small cup as Jinyoung heads across the room. 

When he returns, though, Dr. Hwang has taken off his jacket, has rolled up his sleeves and he leans across a small table. Jaebum is on the other side with his sweater bunched up around his arms, his elbow planted on the same table. Jinyoung almost drops the drinks as he watches the new head of the film department start arm wrestling his boyfriend. Their hands grapple each other and their faces tense, flush a few shades darker than they should be. 

But he doesn’t have to watch for long -- Jaebum wins easily, and Jinyoung’s almost mad that he doesn’t let the director win, that he doesn’t give the faintest impression of trying to woo Dr. Hwang for Jinyoung’s sake. 

Jaebum stretches his arms in victory, draws a few looks from people around them, while Dr. Hwang bends over and laughs, hearty sounds that fall like water, splashing and gathering beneath him. Jinyoung rushes forward, hands him a cup. 

“Here, sir,” he says and Dr. Hwang thanks him between laughs, taking the drink with shaky fingers. His wife rubs at his back, smiling, too. 

Then Jinyoung heads to Jaebum. He grabs him by the elbow, pulls him to the side of the room, in the corner where yellow gives way to blue. Where the shadows cling and color fades. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jinyoung asks. 

“I’m just trying to be friendly,” Jaebum says, “That’s the guy you’re trying to impress, right? I think we’re bonding.” 

“Jaebum, I didn't bring you here to bond, I don’t want you to bond with him. I want you to stop doing whatever you’re doing and behave.”

“I’m just being myself,” Jaebum says and for a moment he looks younger than he is, looks like a child being berated, “I’m not doing anything, babe. I promise.”

“Well, I want you to stop being yourself. I want you to be mature and quiet. I want you to be anything but yourself.”

Jaebum nods, looks like he might cry for a second, but he keeps nodding before he hangs his head.

“Sorry, Jinyoung,” he mutters. Then his neck straightens, and he smiles, though the shape is as thin and small and nothing like Jinyoung is used to.

It makes him realize what he’s doing, how cold the corner is and how his hands tremble. It makes him realize how Jaebum has drawn his arms around himself, looks like he wants to disappear, fold into himself, and guilt strikes him violently, like a river rushing to meet him. Tearing him apart, filling him with a horrible, freezing sensation and he reaches forward, touches Jaebum’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, “I just --”

“It’s okay,” Jaebum interrupts and keeps wearing the smile that isn’t his, the smile that breaks Jinyoung’s heart, makes him see blue where he should see yellow, the night sky where he should see a dawn unraveling.

“I’ll behave,” Jaebum says, “I’ll be like you.” 

.  .  .  .

The first Monday after they move in together, Jaebum wears an indigo, leather jacket. 

“My riding jacket,” he explains as he sifts through a pile of clothes in the closet to pull out a matching indigo helmet. Jinyoung just nods, more fascinated at the exactitude with which Jaebum fulfills each of his teenage fantasies. The jock had been first, now he treads into rebel categories. 

“It looks nice,” Jinyoung says and walks out with his keys.

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride together?” 

“I’m sure.” Jinyoung gives him a wave. Then Jaebum mounts his motorcycle and Jinyoung slips into the minivan he’d driven through his four years of college and more and they both head off to the same school, though with wildly different routes. Jinyoung always arrives fifteen minutes early while Jaebum, for some reason, never arrives at the same time twice. 

At school, because Jinyoung has requested, they don’t hug or kiss, only greet each other verbally. Sometimes they see each other for lunch, sometimes quickly in their office, but as Jinyoung sinks deeper into his expanding thesis, they stop seeing each other at all except at home. 

Even there, in the small room Jinyoung has claimed as his study, with a projector on one side and a pile of books his father shipped to him from Canada in the other, Jinyoung pores over his research, spends entire nights typing away. He doesn’t know his limit, overworks himself to the point that even thinking becomes painful,  as if his mind has started to form a deep, indigo bruise.

“Babe, you’re still working?” 

Jinyoung yawns, stretches his arms above him. He looks at the star-shaped clock on the wall.

“It’s already three in the morning,” he says. 

“Yeah, babe, don’t overdo it. I came to bring you to bed.” 

“I have to finish this,” Jinyoung groans, “Just one more page. It’s so hard to describe the interaction of color without using regular definitions. I want it to stand out, these are new ideas, I’m just having a hard time.”

His voice trails off, remembers that Jaebum rarely understands what he says, but he still listens, earnestly so. He tries to make out Jaebum’s shape in the doorway, but all he sees is an indigo silhouette, just out of reach.

“Why are you up?”

“I thought you might need a distraction.” His figure moves, clicks on the glow of his cellphone. From the hallway, latin music rushes in and floods the small study with drums gone mad, the music of passion. 

Jaebum emerges wearing nothing but indigo suspenders clasped on to matching boxers. He makes his way into the room grinding into the air, swaying his hips, biting his lip and looking right at Jinyoung. He tucks his thumbs under the suspenders, pulls one off his shoulder, plays with the other. 

Then he sings, clumsily, some song in Spanish, and even if Jinyoung speaks no Spanish at all, only knows enough to recognize it, he can tell that Jaebum’s pronunciation is the farthest thing from accurate. Jaebum is far from being a great dancer, but his expression, at once aloof and seductive, the intersection of dark and light, makes Jinyoung feel as though he’s been shaken awake. 

Jaebum slinks around the room, pausing to glance in Jinyoung’s direction, to send him a wink, a smile. To bite his lips before he licks them, to thrust his hips in the air only to pause, frozen suddenly. Then he trails a hand down his chest, his stomach, reaches into his underwear and Jinyoung’s cheeks warm. 

“Why are you singing in Spanish?” he asks when the song ends and Jaebum dances his way to Jinyoung’s desk. 

“It’s not Spanish, babe, it’s French,” Jaebum tells him and he moves his papers to the side, sits on Jinyoung’s desk, “I know you love watching those French movies, I thought I would give you a little surprise. Turn you on a little, I know you must be bored.” 

“Not bored,” he says, “Just tired. And that isn’t French, that’s Spanish.” 

“I don’t think so, Jackson told me it was a French song. And he’s dated, like, three French girls. He would know.” 

“Is this the same Jackson that told you brown cows make chocolate milk?” 

“That was one mistake -- people make mistakes, babe.” He inches closer and closer to Jinyoung, close enough that Jinyoung has to lean back in his chair. Jaebum stretches his legs on either side of him and reaches forward to take one of Jinyoung’s hands. He puts it between his legs, at his groin. 

“Let’s make some JB milk,” he says and laughter bubbles up from Jinyoung’s chest, pulls his lips apart. .

“You’re so dumb,” he says, but the laughter keeps coming, spilling until he forgets about his headache, about the papers he has to write, the lectures he has to give tomorrow. With Jaebum, the aching indigo lightens to a peaceful hue that allows Jinyoung to breathe, to relax, to settle gently into the present where nothing exists but him and Jaebum and the love that flits between them. 

.  .  .  .

When Jaebum and Jinyoung enter the party again, Dr. Hwang is talking to a couple with violets pinned to their blazers. A crowd has gathered around him and the topic, as expected, is film. 

They talk about themes, about color. They talk about the latest pictures and the classics, how they compare, how they differ, how they recreate and reinvent. Jinyoung, patiently, waits for the perfect moment to impart the monologue he’s recited to himself in the bathroom for countless nights, the lecture he whispers while Jaebum snores next to him in bed. 

The moment is exciting, allows him to forget the rest of the night: all he sees is a wide, tender strip of velvet, soft under his fingers, violet in his eyes. 

Then the conversation steers into specific directors. Jaebum, besides Jinyoung, pretends to listen and nods when other people nod, smiles when Jinyoung smiles. He acts like a shadow, then, though less inky, less mysterious. More solemn than anything. 

“I think Wes Anderson is a genius,” a woman says and Dr. Hwang nods. Jinyoung almost winces at the mention of his name, tries to hold his breath until the conversation ends, hopes that Dr. Hwang has nothing to say. But he does. 

“Yes, he is, with fascinating characters. I think he reinvents the stock caricatures of camp and really makes them his own.” 

The people around him nod, as does Jinyoung, by force. He takes another sip of Jaebum’s drink and wishes that someone had poured alcohol into it. 

“He isn’t,” Jaebum says, suddenly, and Jinyoung nearly chokes on his drink. He’s sure he’s blushing now as the panic starts to settle. Anxiety comes in shades of lavender that make him both drowsy and nervous. He hopes that Jaebum doesn’t talk, that he says nothing else, but if the night teaches him anything, it’s that luck is never on his side. 

“He’s not a genius. His use of symmetry is a childish ploy. Really, his characters are dull, his plots are just a kid’s recreation of a regular, overdone narrative. Other than style, Wes Anderson has nothing going for him.”

“Really?” Dr. Hwang asks and Jinyoung takes the smallest step back. The lavender has darkened, now becomes a sea of purple, violent and stormy. He wishes he could drown. 

“Yes, really,” Jaebum says, “He is an auteur but cheaply so. He’s a branding gimmick that has somehow infiltrated the film world.”    
  
“Do you study film?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Then how did you come to these conclusions?” 

Jinyoung looks around at all the eyes watching Jaebum, feels them flock to him when Jaebum points in his direction. And he has never felt this angry before, nothing as deep as this, as though the usual red of his rage darkens into a deep, deep violet, where things go to be lost, to be forgotten. Where his thoughts of Jaebum sink, plunge into a void. 

“Jinyoung tells me about it all the time. He’s super smart about it, I don’t understand most of it. But he does.” 

He tries not to meet Dr. Hwang’s eyes but it happens, anyway. Instead of anger, though, he finds interest. Instead of an unforgiving violet, he finds a friendly lavender. 

“What interesting opinions, I think we all benefit from opposing ideas. It creates conversation. It’s no good to have a stagnant discourse where everyone agrees.” He pauses and Jinyoung holds his breath. “I’d like to talk to you if you have a second, I have a position that might interest you.” 

His breathing resumes. He becomes aware of the hand at his back, short fingers, a warm palm. Jinyoung turns and finds Jaebum smiling in his direction and he has to fight the urge to kiss him there in front of everyone. 

.  .  .  .

The first time he knows he’s in love with Jaebum, a rainbow sits at the horizon. Jinyoung trembles where he sits in the bleachers, his nose red and threatening to run, a blue raincoat wrapped around his frame. He watches Jaebum run across a green field wearing the orange jerseys of the amateur soccer league. From time to time, a drizzle will pour down, and Jinyoung falls into the fit of shivers again. 

Only when Jaebum scores and the small crowd cheers for him does Jinyoung feel any warmth. Though it doesn’t come from the sliver of sun that peeks through clouds, doesn’t come from the coffee he’s brought in a thermos. It doesn’t come from the yelling or the screaming, from the bright smiles that Jaebum’s team hand each other. 

It comes from Jaebum himself, his eyes finding Jinyoung. Their gazes fit perfectly into each other, and for a second Jinyoung isn’t there, getting sicker as Jaebum jumps in the field and blows him a kiss. He isn’t there, with his bottom freezing on the seats, with a child screaming a few rows down. 

He’s in a world alone with Jaebum, where the sun never sets, where the rain never comes. He clings to that shard of warmth, holds it in his chest as best as he can. It lasts until the end of the game, until they drive home, until they step through their door and Jinyoung is met with actual heat. 

“I’m going to die,” he says and Jaebum throws him over his shoulder with a grunt. He carries him to bed, lays him out, peels off the layers of clothing and buries him under blankets. 

“Don’t worry, babe,” he says, “Not only do I score on the field, but I can score in the kitchen.” 

Jaebum disappears into the hallway while Jinyoung settles into bed and looks up to where Jaebum has stuck glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. They should be stars, he thinks, but Jaebum had been insistent on insects and animals and anything that didn’t resemble a universe. He tries to find a pattern in them, but it’s impossible when elephants have been placed with apples, grapes with ants. 

Nothing makes sense with Jaebum, but it’s comfortable, it’s exciting. Love doesn’t have to make sense, he thinks. Love is what he dreams about when he closes his eyes, when colors swirl behind his eyelids and clump together to form a rainbow. 

He wakes to the smell of smoke in his nose. He wakes to Jaebum’s gaze, next to him. 

“Good morning, babe,” he whispers and Jinyoung smiles, ignores the sense of worry that arrives a second later.

“What’s that smell?” 

“Apparently, soup can burn. I wanted to make it super quick for you so I turned it up real high and I thought, well, the can says six minutes, I can probably play a quick game. But I kept playing and when I remembered the soup, it was all black and burnt. Then I called my mom and asked if she could make some that I could bring to you but she didn’t pick up. So then I tried ordering it online but it was just cans of soup -- they’ll arrive in a few days. 

“Right now I have Jackson cooking some. Will be here in a few hours, he said. He’s a good cook, babe. We’re set for tonight.” 

Jinyoung stares at Jaebum, tries to pluck out words from his chest but there is nothing to say. There is nothing to change, nothing to alter. Even full of mistakes, he can’t shake the feeling of things being perfect. There, under the blanket, with his fever rising into dangerous heights, with Jaebum’s breath against his lips. There, where their hands find each other’s, where they pull close until their foreheads are pressed together. 

He leans in for a kiss but Jaebum tilts his head back. 

“Babe, you’re sick, we have to do sick kisses.” Jaebum leans forward and closes his eyes and rubs their noses together and Jinyoung smiles, wider than he ever has. 

“You’re the silliest person I’ve ever met.” 

“I’m kidding, babe. If you’re going to die from a fever, I’ll die with you. It’ll be romantic, like Romeo and Juliet. Or Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” 

Jaebum leans in, fully now, to press his lips against Jinyoung. His eyes close and he melts into the kiss, swears that colors of emotion, of every shade, of every hue, gather at his heart and form the most dazzling rainbow. 

.  .  .  .

Dr. Hwang’s table is wrapped in a white cloth and Jinyoung watches him trace shapes into it with his fingers. 

“So I’m thinking we can start ushering in new ideas as soon as possible. I think the students deserve a well-rounded education, and someone as committed as you shows enough responsibility, but your opinions and the way you think is crucial. We need young energy as much as old energy.” 

Jinyoung nods, looks at his fingers, at his eyes, worn with age. He sees a future there, hiding in his wrinkles, the way his eyelids fold, and he imagines that wisdom resides there. That countless memories bury themselves in the furrow of his brow. 

“You’d be perfect, Jinyoung.”

He keeps nodding, unsure of what to say. He feels isolated there with him, alone, away from the party. Away from Jaebum. He looks across the room where Jaebum stands with Youngjae and Mark and he looks bored and out of place. He’s eating fruit from a toothpick, but a piece of watermelon slides off. Jaebum turns to his right, to his left, then he kicks the fruit underneath a table. 

Then, as if aware of Jinyoung, he glances in his direction, meets his eyes. Jaebum throws a shy smile his way, gives him a thumbs-up.  

“Dr. Hwang?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can we talk about this on Monday?” 

“Of course, Jinyoung,” he follows Jinyoung’s gaze to Jaebum. He presses a hand on Jinyoung’s shoulder, pats him a few times. “Go have a little fun with him. You have your whole life to talk business. Enjoy him while you’re still young.” 

He stands, bows quietly to Dr. Hwang. Then he makes his way across the room, paced, careful. Jaebum has gone back to playing with the hem of his sweater and Jinyoung slows to watch him. It makes him wonder where this overwhelming emotion comes from, when it’s born, where it gathers. 

From one day to the next, it had appeared, had made a home out of his ribs, out of his heart. Suddenly, there were rooms full of Jaebum’s pictures in Jinyoung’s chest, kitchens full of longing. Baths of desire, patios of feeling. Winding hallways of passion, depth where there was none. 

Jinyoung is tired, so much that he doesn’t think anymore. Instead he welcomes what comes: the white-hot flash of love that makes him blind to Mark and Youngjae, to Dr. Hwang, to the guests, even to the room. In his mind, there is only him and Jaebum. A world of their own. 

He stands in front of Jaebum, nudges his shoe with his. 

“Hey, handsome.” 

Jaebum lifts his head and smiles. Jinyoung’s world lights up. 

“Sorry, you’re cute, but I have a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. He’s feisty, too. He might kick your ass.” 

“Then we better be quick,” he says and takes Jaebum’s hand, weaves his fingers with his, “We can ditch him. Want to get out of here?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 


End file.
